Flawed
by pharo
Summary: Perfection turns out to be a lie.


****

Flawed

Author: Pharo

Disclaimer: 'Alias' belongs to J.J. Abrams, Bad Robot, Touchstone, and ABC.

Summary: Perfection turns out to be a lie.

Spoilers: "The Confession".

Category: AU. Credit Dauphine challenge.

Feedback: pharo@newyork.com

Author: I took liberties with some names.

__

'I thought I lost you somewhere, but you were never really ever there at all…' ---Goo Goo Dolls, _'Here Is Gone'_

She loved telling him the story of his father on rainy nights. Evenings when the swings in the nearby park came alive due to the howling wind. Nights when the world outside their home seemed to be nothing more than slanted lines that brought forth clear mellow drops of cold contemplation. 

She lived for the days when she heard nothing but the constant drumming of beads of water colliding with the roof of the warm house. Contrary to popular belief, she felt safer when it rained than when the universe was calm. 

She didn't know exactly why the only time that she could ever tell him about William (only his drinking buddies called him 'Charlie') was when the world around them was wet. The rain reminded her of William. When that happened, she called her son over to her. They sat in the den with a warm fire in front of them and blankets covering their feet. She would pick up a sweater or scarf she was knitting and ask him if he wanted to hear about his dad. Each time she asked, he'd nod and grin in anticipation for the story of how his father was a noble man. 

She'd fuel it with her emphasis on all the good that his father did. Indeed, she painted a royal portrait of him: the brilliant star in a galaxy surrounded by darkness, the knight fighting to keep the princess safe.

She told him with a twinkle in her eyes. No matter how much she embellished, it always remained believable. She had the sweetness in her voice, the faraway look in her eyes, the small smiles at the correct moments that could get anyone to believe that the tooth fairy was real. 

She was so good that sometimes, she even fooled herself into believing that William was the man she portrayed him to be. Sometimes, she would finish thinking she had married the ideal man in her stories. She would forget all the things that she "neglected" to mention, the flaws that "passed her mind". Sometimes, she too believed that he was noble and loyal: the perfect role model. 

And then she'd remind herself that it was all a lie. Santa wasn't real and William Charles Vaughn wasn't wonderful.

***

She remembered almost every small tidbit, every story, every vacation, every poem, and every gift that had been shared between them. He never put on his left shoe until his right shoe was on and tied. He prided himself in being an action man, but could never stop the few tears that escaped when he watched a romantic film. He hummed show tunes while driving. His favorite dish was macaroni and cheese with pretzels on the side---he had an eclectic taste.

Remembering all these little facts that made forgetting him damn near impossible, she forgot the most important of them all. Sometimes, she wished that she didn't remember how it all began: how she met him, but it never escaped her mind. 

It was sometime in the spring, probably around the month of April (something about "April showers…" rang in her mind). They both had decided to seek cover from the heavy rain by standing under the canopy of the closed ice cream shop that her best friend, Pam, had gotten fired from a week before. 

"Pretty awful weather tonight," he had commented. 

To think that the center of her life for so long happened to enter through a simple remark on the weather. It was something so impersonal, so normal that it contrasted with everything else in her life to come. It amazed her every time she thought about it.

They'd talked a little more about the weather and eventually, the rain lessened. He asked her if he could walk her home and she smiled, telling him she'd be grateful if he did. She allowed herself the happiness of his company and pushed all the other thoughts from her mind. She silenced the voice in her head that reminded her of the ex-boyfriend that mentally, she was still not free of---he'd told her that he met someone else five minutes before William's comment on the weather. 

She needed him to help ease her pain those first few days. He made her feel special with those small smiles reserved for her and the way he looked at her as if she was the most beautiful thing in the world. She fell in love with the way he made her feel before she fell in love with him. 

She hated to admit it, but she used William long before he used her.

***

For a time, they were happy. They were normal people who had dinner together every night and watched movies on TV afterwards. Things were so good that she would wake up some rainy nights in a cold sweat, thinking that maybe everything was a dream. With a snap it would all be gone and she'd be standing alone in front of the ice cream shop.

The snap didn't come all at once. It was a gradual sound that she didn't become aware of until it was too late. He got a new job. They saw less of each other. He went on more trips, which meant fewer dinners together. When he came home from the trips, he was grouchy and satisfied with nothing. 

At first, she thought it was the stress of the job. She tried to ease up on him. She had once read in a store window, 'less pressure = longer life'. So she did exactly that.

"I'll mow the lawn today, Hon." 

"What do you want to do that for? It's raining," he replied gruffly. 

When she'd met him, his voice had been so smooth and friendly. Now, it was hoarse and annoyed. He'd become an old man in the time of a few years.

"Just so you can relax," she said, trying to sound like the happy wife.

"Relax? I'll relax when I'm dead."

She'd shake her head, mutter "fine", and retreat to the den before another one of their fights occurred. And it was constant. When they weren't fighting with each other, they were fighting with themselves, wondering why they put up with it for all this time.

"Lawn's mowed," he proclaimed an hour later, followed by a cough.

"Linda called. She and Larry invited us over for dinner."

"When?"

"6:00."

"There's a game on the tube."

"I told them we're going."

"Marie…"

"I have to put away dinner."

Without the chance for him to say another word, she retreated to the kitchen. She wanted to tell him she was thankful for him. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry about the arguments and that it was her fault (even if it wasn't). She wanted to tell him everything, but she ended up saying nothing.

***

She remained clueless to the snap. In retrospect, she believed it was because she didn't _want_ to see it. Just because she didn't recognize it didn't mean that it wasn't there. 

The arguments should have tipped her off. If nothing else, it should have been the bickering that existed between them. Strings of "we never go anywhere anymore" followed by "I work. I'm tired". 

He spent the rainy days when he was home in the den, in front of the television, with a pitcher of beer that when asked magically turned into iced tea. If he got angry with her, she told herself it was the beer talking or the influence of the bad weather. After awhile, that got old and she started to spend her time in laundromats, waiting for socks, shirts, and sunflower dresses she'd never wear to wash and dry. She stared through the big rain-smeared windows and imagined the time, years ago, when she met a handsome man in front of an ice cream shop.

It wasn't until the trip to France (hour-long pleas until he finally agreed to take her with him) when they spent any time whatsoever together. Even then, it wasn't due to their own wishes, but because they had to put up a good front as "representatives of a very prestigious bank". She had given up on the 'less pressure' philosophy. She believed that the less conversation occurred between them, the more peace would exist. 

It wasn't until Michael that they took any incentive to actually act politely towards each other. He was born during a thunderstorm. Twenty-six hours and four cranky nurses later, Michael, handsome with his breath-taking blue eyes and slightly blonde hair (fully brown by age five), was born. With his birth, the two new parental units were brought together once more. 

"My boy here is going to grow up to be just like me," he said when he saw Michael.

She hoped not, but didn't voice it. For the first time in a long time, she saw him smile---not one of the fake smiles they gave their friends, but a genuine smile. One that spread from one side of his face to the other (she never understood the "ear to ear" expression). They hadn't agreed on much before, but they made it clear early on that he'd have loving parents. 

"My little Frenchman is going to have parents that can't stand each other," he told her as they drove back to the hotel in the rain.

They spoke to each other, civilly at that. More words were exchanged between them than had been in the months prior to that drive back. 

They came back home and this time she thought that maybe they could go back to the way they used to be. And then she heard the snap.

***

The sound was raw and caused her heart to sting with pain, anger, confusion, and the lingering question of 'why'.

She didn't realize how much things had changed until that one morning. Light rain fell, causing clouds to block any small rays of sunshine that come with morning. She had woken up earlier than usual to drop off an especially big load at the laundromat. He had come back from a trip the night before with more dirty clothes than imaginable. 

Her flowered umbrella sheltered her as she walked the few blocks with her shopping cart full of laundry. It had been months since she'd gone back to the laundromat. She had gradually cut her ties with the square shaped building that, at a time, had served as a safe haven against the disappointment her marriage had been. She had severed the bonds with the other women who spent their hours watching soap operas and complaining about their husbands while folding cotton shirts. 

Her marriage was fine. She hadn't needed their comfort anymore. She did her laundry at home, hand-washed and smelling like spring. 

However, when she entered, everything seemed to be as she left it: Betty and Donna by the economy-sized washers, Loraine and Sarah by the dryers opposite them. The other wives were scattered all over, putting their laundry into the machines. The soap operas hadn't started yet---the focus was scattered. 

"Marie? Ladies, Marie's back! Where've you been, sweetie?"

She smiled at Betty's warm welcome. 

"Hand washing these days," was all she said.

"Hand washing? So things are good at home?"

She shook her head in the affirmative as she separated the colors from the whites. She checked the pockets of every article of clothing, just to make sure she didn't wash something that wasn't washable (Michael had left chocolate in his pockets the last time she washed his shirt). 

She had gotten to the last shirt when it happened. She pulled out the white slip of paper and the room blurred all of a sudden. She blinked furiously to try to get the tears to clear, but they just came at her stronger.

__

'Didn't want to wake you, sleepyhead. Last night was fun.

Until our paths cross again,

Laura'

She read it over and over again until the words stopped making sense---if they ever made sense to begin with. Even after she put the paper down, she saw the words in her eyes, the elaborate handwriting, with the looped 'l' and curvy 'd'. She felt her eyes wander over the words again.

__

'Last night was fun.'

She wasn't sure, as she ran out of the laundromat, if the stinging was from the tears or the pain of deception. As she dashed across the streets that the rain pounded on, she knew that a fever was certain. The red umbrella lay with the rest of the laundry. Everything was with the laundry except the paper she clutched in her white hands.

__

'Last night was fun.'

Maybe he'd lent someone his shirt. Maybe the 'fun' referred to in the note was about something completely different like pool. Maybe this 'Laura' was lying, but that didn't make sense. Why would 'Laura' lie in the note specifically meant for William?

__

'Until our paths cross again.'

Had it been more than once? Her mind questioned the numerous bank trips he took. Was there more than one 'Laura' out there that had 'fun' with him? 

__

'Last night was fun.'

Confrontation. Betrayal. How? Why?

Those were the words on continuous rotation in her mind.

***

He was sitting at the breakfast table in his neatly starched suit (with the crisp white shirt) reading the morning paper when she entered. She tried her best not to slam the door, not to lunge at his neck, and strangle him for hurting her. She just took deep breaths while he didn't bother to look up at her puzzling entrance. 

"Hi honey."

She hadn't know if the rage she was feeling wasn't apparent or if he was just too stupid to realize that she knew. Maybe he thought she was too stupid to find out.

"Michael!"

Within seconds, her son came in from the den.

"Honey, can you go drop by the laundromat and pick up the laundry?"

He nodded

"Take your umbrella."

"Ok."

He grabbed his umbrella and poncho and left through the back door.

"Didn't you just come back from the laundromat?" he asked, still not looking at her.

"Coffee?" she asked through gritted teeth.

The actions were carried mechanically, but she didn't know how. Her mind was somewhere completely different, assessing the possibilities once again. 

Coffee was the one thing that could make or break his day. Good coffee and he'd be happy the rest of the day. Bad cup and no one wanted to be around him. She wasn't sure as she slammed his mug down in front of him if she spit in the coffee sometime between pouring it and stirring in the sugar. 

"Do you know a Laura?" she asked as casually as her emotions would allow.

"No," he said, his eyes glued to the paper. "Is she one of your laundry friends?"

Somehow, she managed to utter "yes". Her hands gripped the kitchen counter until her knuckles were white and she lost all sensation. The voice in her mind was like a broken record, asking "why" over and over again, until the word ceased to have any meaning.

She stared blankly at him---no, not him---the front and back cover pages of his newspaper. A storekeeper had been caught committing insurance fraud. The local baseball team had gotten new uniforms. None of that mattered to her. She thought about walking up to him and ripping his paper in half so that she could see him. Judge from his eyes if he was lying---no, not if, but why? Why him? Why her? Why now when everything was so perfect?

Instead, she remained frozen there with the magnets on the refrigerator cutting into her back as she leaned further against it.

He half-read half-searched around for the cup. Finally, feeling the warm cup, he put it to his mouth and took a big drink. Almost instantaneously, he spit it all over his fresh newspaper. He dropped the newspaper to reveal an angry glare.

"This coffee tastes horrible. I thought you knew the way I liked it. Now go get me a new cup and make it quick."

He practically barked at her, reminding her of the neighbor's pit bull. The one that barked at friendly visitors and stayed quiet when the robbers had come last month.

__

He had the audacity to scream at _her_. 

He held out the mug for her to take and refill with a better refreshment. She felt time slow down and once again, her body moved mechanically and took the cup. 

"Look, what you made me do," he said, standing up and shaking his hands of coffee. "Damn it, Marie, you're lucky I put up with all of this."

Recollecting, she thinks now that _that_ was when she reached the final straw. The almighty air he had had around him that said that she should be thankful for his "loyalty". 

"Marie, are you listening?" he shouted, talking to her as if she were a child. "Get me my damn coffee, Marie."

Before she knew what she was doing, she felt herself fling all her anger at him. It seemed to be in slow motion, the cup flying through the air and then the hold was released and she heard the crash against the wall. Coffee stains all over a given radius. The cup shattered into two big and about a million small pieces.. 

It had flown three inches past his ear. 

As soon as it left, it came back. Motor functions that were hers once more. Trembling hands and tears, like rain, came to her eyes as she thought of the life that could've been so much better than this. She'd become a wasted woman too blind to see that her life had fallen apart and become shards of the 'Happy Father's Day' cup littering her kitchen floor.

"Marie, what was that?" he asked, his voice calmer now.

"Laura," she said quietly.

"Who the hell is Laura?" his voice rising once more.

She shook her head and wondered how much longer he thought he could play this game.

"Laura, damn it, Laura," she said, as if repeating the woman's name would display the pain she was feeling.

"I don't know who---"

She placed the paper she had grasped in her hand on the counter separating them. He picked it up and she saw the words play in front of her eyes once more.

"Last. Night. Was. Fun," she said, enouncing each word carefully. 

"Marie---"

"Don't you dare say it's not what _I_ think," she said, seeing the words come from his mouth. "_I_ don't have to think anything, William. It says it all right there."

"It had been coming for a long time, Marie. Don't tell me you didn't see it too."

That was the sad thing, she hadn't.

"It was never about love," he said. "Just need."

"Need?" 

She forced herself to keep her hands to her sides. 

"I wasn't happy," he started to say.

She wanted to scream for him to shut up, but she found herself repeating "happy?"

"Yes, happy."

"I don't give a damn about your happiness, William." 

Happiness. What a crock. Happiness was the source of all pain. Happiness was what blinded her. Happiness---his happiness---was what was making her hands tremble.

"Did you ever give a damn about my happiness?" she asked.

He opened his mouth to answer, but she silenced him once more.

"No, of course, you hadn't. You were too busy going on your fancy 'bank trips' and doing people like Laura. No, if you had for a single second, thought about _my_ happiness, about _our_ happiness, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Marie---"

She squeezed her eyes shut and focused on breathing. Her head hurt with the knowledge that her world was spinning out of control. She had to look down to make sure that the black and white checkered floor was still under her feet.

"Mom, I got the laundry," a voice shouted from the living room.

She took a deep breath to steady her trembling voice.

"Ok, honey. Dad will be right out to sort with you," she said. 

She wiped the tears from her eyes and checked her reflection in the steel sink. She walked over to the other side of the counter. 

"He does _not_ need to know about this," she whispered strongly. "When we're around him, everything is fine. We laugh, we smile, we do the normal parents routine. You can ruin my life, but I _will not_ have you ruining his."

He nodded and headed for the living room, leaving her to pick up the pieces of her broken life.

***

The next week, she faked smiles and he went on another one of his trips. Michael went to a birthday party and the neighborhood baseball game that took place regardless of the rain and wind. She was left to sit in the den and watch reruns of shows that depicted the life she had imagined herself having years ago. 

"Mrs. Vaughn?" asked the voice on the other end of the phone at 3 am.

"That's what they call me."

"Marie Vaughn?"

"Yes, yes. That's me."

"I've got some bad news."

The rain got louder as the man disclosed what he had called to tell her. Her grip on the phone loosened until she couldn't hold it anymore and it dropped to the carpeted bedroom floor with a soft _thud_. 

"Ma'am? Ma'am? Can you hear me? Ma'am, are you ok?"

She stared at the empty space next to her and thought of how he'd never be there again. No more trips, no more dirty laundry. No notes from 'Laura' or pitchers filled with beer.

Her mind buzzed when she bent to pick up the phone and listen to the man say something about a car accident. 

"Slippery roads…skidding car…on behalf of the bank…sorry for your loss."

Her lungs were constricting so tightly that she felt she couldn't breathe. She felt like one of those UPS packages, packed in with Styrofoam so that she couldn't move a bit. 

"I have to go do some laundry."

She hung up the phone before he could reply. She sat in bed surrounded by the pieces of her smashed life. 

***

However, she never told him any of this when she recalled his father's life. Just because her life had collapsed around her didn't mean that his had to also. To him, William was in the same honest league as Superman and Batman and she wasn't going to ruin that.

Some truths were better left covered.


End file.
